


Latching onto you

by lesbleusthroughandthrough



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awkward First Date AU, Liverpool F.C., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-05 06:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6693631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbleusthroughandthrough/pseuds/lesbleusthroughandthrough
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hi,” the guy said, untangling his arms and reaching one across the table to shake, “I’m Emre,” and any hope Philippe had had that this was all a horrible mistake, died.<br/>-<br/>We bumped into each other at the pharmacy right before our date and you were buying extra small condoms and now that’s all I can think about AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Latching onto you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doubtthestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubtthestars/gifts).



> Title is from [_Latch_ by Disclosure and Sam Smith](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=93ASUImTedo)
> 
>  
> 
> Shout out to my really top beta (Olivia, cheers)!!
> 
> Anyway I'm so sorry about this, but, you asked for it.

 

 

 

“Alright, riddle me this.”

Philippe didn’t lift his eyes from his own reflection in the mirror. He had never heard Roberto tell a riddle but he was sure that he wouldn’t like it.

“What?” Larissa asked, from the spread of paper at the table in the kitchen, sounding exhausted.

“Why,” and Philippe could feel Roberto waggling an accusing spatula at him, from over at the hob, “I mean. You’ve said you don’t want this date, _right_. You’ve said it. You’ve said it to me for, like- three days straight. So, _why_ are you being so annoying about fixing yourself up?”

“I’m not being _annoying_ ,” Philippe argued, and quickly dropped the sleeve he’d been rolling up, just after he’d unrolled it (and he was _not_ about to admit) to see if it looked better. He quickly turned around and pulled up a chair, trying not to look guilty.

“ _Sure_ ,” Roberto said, sounding smug. There was a dull flapping noise- a pancake being flipped. “Just like you don’t _have_ to go.”

“I don’t,” Philippe said, plainly. There was a mental tick inside his head, one that said: _maybe the sleeve looks better rolled down after all?_ “Lucas asked me to go, so I’m gonna do it. And when it doesn’t work out, he’ll leave me alone.”

Larissa raised one finger, while writing with her other hand. “But you’re still going. You’re _curious_.” Philippe scowled at her, and she smiled without looking up; knowing.

“Admit it,” Roberto said, beaming, as he carried the pile of pancakes over to the table. “You want to know who Lucas could have set you up with. I mean you make all these grand gestures about how independent you are, blah, blah, blah- _but_ you still can’t resist someone suggesting they’ve found the right guy for you.”

“Shut up,” Philippe said, politely. Not. He reached for a fork.

“Fuck _off,”_ Roberto answered, equally politely; swatting his hand away and looking so remarkably self-satisfied, Philippe was almost jealous. “ _No._ No pancakes for you. You’ve got a _dinner_. With a guy called _Emre_. And Lucas says that he’s _cute._ ”

“Don’t mock me,” Philippe whined. “You’re having breakfast at six in the evening, you’re like, purely nocturnal. You too,” he said to Larissa, now looking at Roberto with that familiar soft fondness that he _hated_. “You’re both so vitamin D deficient because of your research, that you completely misheard Lucas. Lucas did not say he was cute. Lucas didn’t say that _at all._ Lucas said,” and Philippe was already waving his arms in the air with the frustration of it all; which was, of course, what Roberto had been aiming for. “That I needed to get out more, and if I didn’t show up he would fire my ass. _So,_ ” he snorted. “I don’t _have_ to go. But I like my job, and, _sometimes,_ I like my boss. So I’m going to go.”

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” Larissa said, as Roberto spread his arm over the back of her chair, and she leaned back into his shoulder. “You’ll have a good time. It’s a nice restaurant, anyway; make sure he pays.”

“It is?” Roberto asked, surprised. “You’ve been there?”

“Dejan brought Anita last week,” she said absently, grinning as Philippe hit her with a knowing look. _Oh, come_ on!

“Awh,” Roberto said, looking surprised. “I guess I’ll have to bring you next week, so.” And he leaned forward and planted a very soft kiss on her cheek.

Philippe just had to interrupt, lest this dissolve into a soppy, wet, make-out session at the kitchen table; and he refused to be witness to that, _again._

“No,” he said, getting up, “worst thing that could happen, is that I’ll end up like _you two_.” He pushed his chair back hard, got up and marched into his room. Even through the shut door, he still heard them laughing, then heard the wet noises of them kissing, and wished, dearly, that he could make it all stop.

* * *

 

Initially, Philippe hadn’t resented being set up. Initially, he had actually been quite flattered, with the way Lucas had delivered the news to him: sticking his head over the top of Philippe’s cubicle, a right beam of sunshine as per usual, asking him if he had any plans for this weekend.

Because Lucas had a friend, who needed advice on a thing- in retrospect, the details had been vague at best; but all details were vague at 10am on a Tuesday- and Philippe should go for dinner with them. Then, because why not, Philippe had said sure. He’d help Lucas out.

Philippe hadn’t even caught on to the weak explanation, not even at all. Philippe may have even gone through the whole week, the whole blind date, then, without noticing; had he not mentioned it to Roberto.

“Dude, he’s setting you up.”

“Setting me up for what?”

“Setting you up on a _date_.”

Worse, when Philippe confronted him: Lucas didn’t even deny it.

* * *

 

Lucas had booked an Italian restaurant (and in hindsight, who booked an Italian restaurant for a friendly chat about college courses, or whatever it was?! It was a small miracle that Philippe had survived to adulthood with his non-existent ability to grasp hints) that was tucked inside a shopping centre not far from where Philippe lived.

Philippe stopped outside the front door. _Faltered._ He was still deciding how he felt about this: nervous, but guilty about being nervous. What if the guy was horrible, obnoxious and creepy? And worse: what if he wasn’t? What if Philippe actually _liked_ him?

This was a guaranteed disaster, but he couldn’t show up at work tomorrow if he’d bailed. If he knew Lucas, he wouldn’t be able to stick his head out of his _bedroom window,_ ever again.

Philippe had worked himself up so much that he now had a killer headache from pure panic. A blind date? In this day and age, did people actually even _date_?

His fringe fell into his eyes for the fourth time in as many minutes, and he found himself letting go of his lip, to tilt his head back and try to smooth it flat across his head. The clock above the entrance informed him that he was now exactly nine and a half minutes early, and he felt the frustrated moan push up against the back of his throat.

Too late to turn around and go home? Probably.

He would never, ever admit that Roberto was right. That a little part of him squirmed at the fact that Lucas- Philippe’s self-appointed surrogate dad, general Protector of the Small- had come across someone, and decided they would be a good match for Philippe. _Philippe_ had never even come across anyone that Philippe thought would be a good match for Philippe. So no matter how often he said it, nothing would make him bail on this- not for anything in the world.

_Well,_ he thought, _there is the small matter of first impressions_. Philippe wasn’t even sure what kind of impression he was trying to make, but show his true, disastrous self? Not a chance. He’d pulled his nicest, crispest shirt from the very back of his wardrobe- although the sleeves were now slightly creased, from excessive rolling and unrolling. He’d borrowed some of Roberto’s hair gel- since he’d always claimed it was just so reliable when, actually, it was turning out to be quite useless. Maybe projecting the idea that he was neat and tidy, even if only initially, could only be a good thing, right? As his eyes roamed the lines of shops inside the automatic doors as they hummed open and shut to let people through, his vision fell on a bright blue dentist shop front. He wondered why this was important.

Philippe had had a tuna and onion bagel today for lunch. Philippe had eaten the smelliest food combination mere hours ago, and with all of his snapping at Roberto before he left, he _hadn’t brushed his teeth._

This wasn’t important. Probably. He was getting ahead of himself- he didn’t intend to make out with this guy. Not immediately, anyway.

But still. He would have to greet him, right? And sit across the table from him? Oh boy. Oh boy, this was a complication he hadn’t been expecting.

His palms started to sweat, shoved so far into his pockets that he felt the stitching strain.

Nine minutes and, now, fifteen seconds was not enough time for him to run home and brush his teeth. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself, he would die a little inside if this guy’s lasting impression of him was Rancid Fish Breath. In his head, some faceless stranger was shaking their head at Lucas, “ _I mean he was nice and all, but his dental hygiene was a bit slack_ ”, and Lucas was patting his arm, wearing an expression of sympathetic understanding, “ _don’t worry, I get what you mean.”_

_No!_

Philippe was marching towards the neighbouring pharmacy before he could even register, his fists clenched. There was enough that could go wrong today, and he wasn’t going to doom the evening before it had even started.

He wasn’t quite sure what he was after, he realised, when he half-braked, half-fell into the shop. The pharmacist behind the counter looked up, and the guy facing the counter turned around, and they both frowned at him. They made a funny pair: the pharmacist dressed up in a loose white lab coat, and the guy in a pristine black suit.

“Uh,” Philippe said, taking far too long to regain his balance. He ducked down one of the aisles- the baby aisle, apparently. He lifted his head- looking for signs, indications to the layout of the shop, _anything_ \- when his eyes caught in the sceptical stare of the suited guy at the counter. Philippe thought about models in expensive watch adverts. He was tall, so his torso seemed to twist for longer than possible as he followed Philippe over his shoulder, and he had almost expertly crafted stubble, and very well-behaved, gelled back hair- Philippe was almost jealous.

_Over waxed_ , he tried to tell himself. _It looks like an oil slick._

The guy’s eyes narrowed at him- heavy-lidded and scrutinizing as they already were- and Philippe hesitated. Too late. Eye contact with a total stranger had been made, and _he wasn’t looking away_. Philippe’s body completely betrayed him and reacted in the worst way possible: he felt his lips draw back into the creepiest smile, _ever_. He stood, frozen, complete with the dorkified loser grin, right until the guy turned his head again to the babbling pharmacist.

When Philippe’s cheeks fell slack, they actually hurt. He couldn’t believe that, less than a minute ago, he had been giving himself a pep-talk on the importance of first impressions. At least, for this guy, it was the only impression he would get of Philippe. Philippe couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing, but before he could dwell on it for much longer, his eyes caught on the “Dental” sign propped up over one of the aisles instead.

He manoeuvred his way across the shop- and took a hesitant look back at the counter again. The suited guy still had his back to him, but he could see the pharmacist talking away and explaining something with over-excited hand gestures. His cheeks were ripening, drastically.

_Oh my God,_ Philippe realised. _He fancies him!_

Philippe, though, hadn’t been nearly close enough to the Wristwatch Model to be in any kind of position to judge. He was willing to bet that he smelled as he looked: definitely, very good.

_What would it be like, to be able to wrap people around your finger like that?_

The pharmacist disappeared again, and Philippe found himself standing in front of the Dental section, having almost completely forgotten why he was even there.

He felt his eyes lifting again, drawn to the way that the Wristwatch Model’s hair swirled from his crown- _swirled_ , shiny and stuck flat to his head, like it had been deliberately crafted in a half-circle- the thickest, blackest hair Philippe had ever seen.

His gaze dipped, spotting the chewing gum at the front counter, wondering a little if that was the simplest solution to his problem, wondering a lot about walking up there to find out just how good this guy smelled. A sudden, irresistible urge that grew right up from the very base of his stomach.

_You’re meant to be going on a date in a minute, idiot!_

The feeling reached Philippe’s lungs and suddenly he didn’t care. He took several long steps- to the end of the aisle, towards the counter- and then the pharmacist returned from the back of the shop, still very red around the cheeks, and Philippe stopped dead when he saw what he then placed on the counter.

A box, no bigger than if it contained a tube of toothpaste, coloured lime green and wrapped in plastic that reflected the light of the shop in its sheen; but not enough for Philippe not to read the labelling.

_Durex. Extra small._

The feeling that had been making its way up Philippe’s inner cavity now turned into laughter as it bubbled up his throat, and he just about managed to keep it down. The edgy and embarrassed attitude of the pharmacist suddenly made _so much sense._

_That is… unfortunate._

It was. It was so unfortunate, Philippe thought, because he had such a nice profile, picking up the box and tucking it absently into his shoulder satchel. Oh boy, biology had both honoured and failed this one, Philippe concluded, noting that he had long, slender hands while taking his bank card back from the pharmacist. And when he turned and walked right past Philippe when he left, he did, unfortunately, smell _really_ nice.

When the shop door closed behind him, Philippe swung around to meet the pharmacist’s eyes: and he looked down, coughing awkwardly.

Philippe sank into one of the benches outside, after, slowly unravelling the chewing gum packet in his hand.

He couldn’t wait to tell Roberto this story. But what story? The absolute sum of Philippe’s life: falling head over heels for a stranger in a shop, right before his date, and then being completely buffed back by something really stupid.

_Size doesn’t matter_ , a sensible voice said inside his head.

Right, of course not.

He knew he should feel terrible, but, he found it hard to believe that condom companies provided an “extra small” size. And who was he to judge? This guy probably had a nice, understanding partner; because maybe some people were into that, and meanwhile Philippe couldn’t even manage to land himself a date without help.

It was just… _extra small._

Philippe snorted to himself, and checked his watch. He was now a not-too-shabby two and a half minutes early, with considerably fresher breath. Because, okay, no point in wondering about the ups and downs of the love life of a handsome pharmacy guy when he was meant to be on an actual date.

But, at least he already had something to tell Roberto when he got home.

The smell of pizza hit him as he walked into the restaurant, that small slice of comic relief enough to numb down the nerves for this. He was looking forward to it now, if just for the food. Because how could things be bad if there was pizza on the menu?

The waiter, surprised, returned Philippe’s smile when he explained that he was here for a table for two, under “Leiva”. And Philippe, his sides still stitched with his initial contained laugher, grinned at every single customer in the restaurant, right the whole way across it, until he reached the table at the other end, and sat down.

Across from him, with his arms folded to rest his elbows on the table, his hair swept back with inch precision and his eyes creased when he smiled: was the guy from the pharmacy. _The Wristwatch Model_ , Philippe remembered, as he saw a very fancy looking watch indeed poking up from under his cuff.

_Extra small._

Philippe felt the colour slowly drain from his face, and his smile faded rapidly.

“Hi,” the guy said, untangling his arms and reaching one across the table to shake, “I’m Emre,” and any hope Philippe had had that this was all a horrible mistake, died.

Emre’s smile faded, and a frown started in the crease between his eyes; as Philippe stared at his hand, with its long, and hopelessly soft looking fingers; probably like it was lecherous.

He coughed, and brought it back to his half of the table. “Are you,” Emre’s head tilted slightly, and oh God, oh no, his eyes twisted as he smiled- Philippe thought of paisley motifs; curled sideways tear-drops, “feeling okay?”

_Extra small._

Philippe considered opening his mouth to speak, but he already knew no sound would come out.

_But he’s so pretty._

Devastatingly so. Worse, when he looked straight at Philippe now, with all of his attention and not just from awkward, random eye-contact with a total stranger.

Emre blinked at him, his lips drawing together. _Pursing_. Philippe had doomed this date and they were thirty seconds into it. He despaired, and promised to wash his teeth three times a day in the future.

_Extra small._

The packaging label was etched against the inside of his corneas, even when he blinked, Philippe saw it. Now it flashed, like a neon sign; it even buzzed in his ears like a neon sign- completely impossible to ignore.

Then, the thought hit him over the head like a frying pan. Had Emre bought condoms because… he thought… tonight was going to end a different way?

He hesitated, and grabbed a menu- propping it up on the table to duck behind it.

Lord, what if this had been set to end in sex? Where would Philippe have put his eyes? But Emre was so… tall. And his hands were so large and… images were now flashing in front of Philippe’s eyes, potential images, and the colour returned to his face far, far too fast.

_Extra small._

He lifted his eyes above the top of the menu, briefly; only to see that Emre was still looking at him. Curiously.

_Does he know?_ Philippe wondered. _Does he know, that I saw?_

_Extra! Small!_

He ducked his head further, just in case his blush had now reached the top of his forehead.

How bad would it be if he just… walked out? He didn’t think Emre would mind, anything had to be better than being at dinner with an apparent mute. Philippe had even _rebuffed his handshake._

Lucas was never going to forgive him.

Literally, the prospect of Lucas never forgiving him was the only reason Philippe sat glued to his seat.

Philippe wished, dearly, that he had just sucked up and ignored the potential bad breath. It had to be better than this.

He realised then, that he was trying to read the _Pizza_ section of the menu. However, all he was reading was: _extra small extra small extra small._

All that way across the table, Emre cleared his throat, and Philippe decided to bite the bullet and look.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Emre asked. He was smiling- not politely, but _kindly_. He thought Philippe was sick. He didn’t think Philippe was a genuine idiot. He didn’t think that Philippe was a genuine idiot, _yet_.

Because, surely, that couldn’t be far off now.

Philippe nodded. He would have said _I’m fine_ , but it seemed that his vocal cords were no longer connected to his brain, preoccupied with flashing _Extra small! Extra small!_ around the inside of Philippe’s head, like an ambulance siren.

Emre looked at him for a long moment. His eyes narrowed, by the slimmest of margins. He was calculating his next move. Remarkable that Emre was even considering this date lasting any longer than ten more seconds.

“Carbonara is good,” he coaxed, in Philippe’s general direction.

Philippe took a deep breath. Philippe swallowed. Philippe cleared his head.

“Pizza,” he croaked, tipped the menu in Emre’s direction.

“Good choice,” Emre said, thoughtfully, distracted by the menu again. “The pizzas are enormous here.”

_Extra small!_

There was an opening, then, for Philippe to ask something mundane and harmless like, _do you come here often._ But Philippe didn’t trust himself.

Emre had a nice voice, right now, in this conversation. Low, sure, but there was a certain delicateness somewhere on the fringe- like an old lisp or something. He was so calm- completely unnerved by Philippe and whatever kind of crisis he was currently having.

_Maybe he’s used to it_ , Philippe wondered, _he is certainly pretty enough to make people lose their train of thought when they look at him for too long._

And plus, he looked considerably more content than he had in the pharmacy. While the pouty, drawn-cheekboned, frown-thing even back then had been a truly stunning combination, now that he was smiling and looking so damn pleasantly occupied by Philippe in a fluster, there was a lovely sheen to his eyes and this potentially enormous smile to consider. Right now, Philippe could only see hints of that smile, and it already threatened to take over Emre’s entire face.

_Extra small._

Philippe wished he could eradicate the memory.

He swallowed, thickly, and tried to clear his head.

“Uh,” he said. And swallowed again.

Incredibly and repeatedly unperturbed by Philippe out-losering himself, Emre rubbed his palm along the edge of his jaw, watched Philippe struggle for words; and spoke.

“I can’t believe Lucas did this,” he smiled a little wider, and if that was meant to encourage Philippe to speak, it very much had the opposite effect. “A blind date. Huh. Right?”

Philippe shook his head, his eyes drawn to how the corner of Emre’s thumb- balanced on the sharp angle of the side of the menu- very gently curled down the edge of the page.

Thing was, right now he understood why Lucas thought he had done Philippe the biggest favour of his life. Lucas could not possibly know about the condom thing. Philippe knew he should get a grip because that really should not matter, not now, not when Emre was clearly perfect in exactly every other way.

He tried to smile back in reply. He kind of felt more like he was baring his teeth at him.

“You’re from around here?” Emre now deducing that yes or no questions were going to be the closest thing they were going to get to a conversation.

Philippe tried to speak, again, but, again, it did not happen. So he nodded, chewed his lip a bit, and then, considered, and tilted his head back to Emre a little too tentatively.

This was going to be a long night. Philippe tried to balance his need for pizza with his need to run, and his stomach growled; answering the question for him.

Emre’s mouth tilted a little bit further up on one side.

_I have literally just about acknowledged his existence,_ Philippe thought, _I can’t believe he considers that progress. When will he accept that there is no way we will be able to save this?_

“Yeah, same,” Emre hummed, and he looked over Philippe’s shoulder; and Philippe swung around- realising that Emre was trying to catch the eye of a passing waiter. “I really like this place, though. Lucas said that you’ve never been here before.”

“Hi,” the waiter said, before Philippe had a chance to reply (not like he was probably going to, or anything). “Are you ready to order?”

“Sure,” Emre said. And then he smiled at the waiter. Something weird- uncannily like his heart- fluttered in Philippe’s chest. Something that recognised that Emre smiled a little brighter at Philippe. Philippe couldn’t believe that he was proud of it.

_Extra small._

_Shut up!_

The waiter leaned closer to Emre as he spoke, and Philippe only felt pity- remembering that Emre smelled particularly good, and also that this guy couldn’t not _know_. It gave him some confidence, then, when the waiter looked at him and waited; without even leaning slightly in his direction- and the word “margarita” fell out of his mouth.

“He speaks!” Emre said, when they were alone again. It felt to Philippe like his lips were large enough to spread past the edges of his face now, in that grin- and he could even confirm that hypothesis. Yet even though Emre was smiling at him with a hell of a lot more brightness than before, he felt that surprise still dimmed it somewhat.

And even in its dimmed brightness, Philippe still sort of felt like he’d been hit by a truck.

Right now Philippe both owed Lucas for the rest of his life; and really, really, hated him- for sticking this actual Adonis of an apparition in front of him, with a design flaw.

_A “design flaw!”_ He screamed internally. _What are you_ like _, Coutinho?_

“Don’t be alarmed.”

The waiter was back, and Philippe nearly leapt out of his seat: needing to take stock of just how much time had elapsed while he had been sitting there viciously internally battling between crushing and being crushed.

“Someone just ordered a carbonara by accident,” there was a steaming plate in front of Emre now. “So here you are.” And while Emre was busy looking at his pasta, the waiter threw Philippe a look as if to say: _I’m gonna pick up on your slack, bro,_ and Philippe decided to take comfort in the fact that, if Emre was half the guy Philippe thought he was, he wouldn’t be drawn to eyebrows that were anywhere near that fluffy.

“Nice,” Emre said, to Philippe. “See, I told you the service was good here.”

Meanwhile, Philippe was stabbing the receding back of the waiter with his eyes. He was brought back to reality with a scraping, screechy noise: Emre pushing the plate into the middle of the table, right between them.

“Would you like some?”

Philippe didn’t have a thing for overly creamy pasta, but this looked so fresh and delicious, and there was steam coming off it. All this internal battling must have been more exhausting than he’d realised because his stomach rumbled suddenly, hard, and some reflex made him grab for his fork. He was halfway through twirling his pasta onto it when he realised that Emre hadn’t moved.

_Speak Philippe!_ He paused, and opened his mouth, then his throat- even if what came up it next was more of a high-pitched gargle.

“It’s _yours_.”

Emre shrugged.

But Philippe was suddenly suspicious, and paused- his fork half-spun with oozing creamy pasta- suddenly worried.

“Do you think there’s something wrong with it? That they did something to it?” He squinted at the food, but it _looked_ okay?

However, when he looked up Emre had one hand splayed over his eyes- a hand large enough to cover his eyes and part of his mouth, too: and containing _giggles_ , by the looks of it.

“What?” Philippe asked, but he was thinking: _oh no._

_Extra small._

Emre let out a short snort and rubbed at his chin. Then he reached for his fork.

In the most fluid pasta-twirling exercise Philippe had ever witnessed; Emre then lifted it and slid the fork smoothly into his mouth; quirking his eyebrow at Philippe as he chewed.

Philippe almost didn’t notice. He was rather fixed on the line of his jaw, and how it was very prominent in the movement, and clearly very strong.

“Uh,” he said.

Emre swallowed.

Philippe’s stomach dropped.

Emre stuck his fork back in the bowl for round two, and Philippe decided, okay, fine. He lacked Emre’s pasta-twirling expertise, but he somehow managed to get a whole forkful in his mouth.

“Good, right?” Emre mumbled, his mouth full. “See?”

It was too damn good. Philippe was already shovelling the second round into his mouth, getting a little bit more of it onto his face this time. A great excuse to bury himself into a napkin.

Obviously, Emre ate with care and precision, and there were exactly no carbonara sauce casualties on his face, in his stubble or on his shirt that was almost _too_ wrinkle-free.

But- if Philippe kept eating, it was at least a good excuse not to talk. He deliberately slowed his chew.

“So, Lucas said that you work with him,” Emre was saying, casually- because now that he had managed to actually extract an entire sentence from Philippe, why not try more, right? “Yeah?”

_I work_ for _him,_ Philippe would have corrected, had his mouth not been full of pasta and delicious, delicious cream sauce. He shrugged. Then he waved his fork in Emre’s direction. _You?_

“We play football together,” Emre said. “Five-a-side.”

Philippe laughed, and as a consequence nearly choked on his pasta.

“What?” Emre said, chuckling, making no move to help Philippe as he nearly asphyxiated.

“Lucas?” Philippe gasped. “ _Sport?_ ” The image of Lucas as anything but the world’s greatest couch potato was hard to reconcile. Lucas moving at any speed that was more than five miles a week was near on _impossible._

“Well,” Emre said. “Yes.” Then he noticed Philippe’s expression. “I’m mean he’s not _great_ , but he’s not totally terrible either.”

Philippe, for the first time in their entire encounter, _laughed_. And he realised it far too late, only realised it when Emre was reflecting it back at him with soft satisfaction. He wondered how Emre could be like that to him when Philippe was most definitely the worst date, ever.

“Margarita?”

The pizza looked even better than the pasta had. Philippe offered Emre a slice. Then, watched in horror as Emre peeled off a piece, and rolled it up before taking a bite.

“’S good,” Emre mumbled, nodding, still infuriatingly crinkly around the eyes.

Philippe was scandalised.

“What are you _doing_ ,” he hissed, “to that pizza slice?”

Emre frowned. “It means I eat more of it.”

“It means you eat it _faster._ ”

“What does that matter?”

“Do you _hate_ joy?”

Emre though clearly did not hate joy- as he was so obviously resplendent in it, stretching back into his seat and even grinning as he chewed. Philippe realised, a second later, that it was the longest stretch of dialogue that they’d had since he’d sat down without his brain rudely interrupting.

But it had rudely interrupted now, and Philippe focused really hard on tearing off some pizza for himself. He felt the heat build-up behind his ears.

“Thank God,” Emre said, and when Philippe looked up, alarmed: “I thought you’d start eating it with a knife and fork.”

“Pizza isn’t meant to be eaten gracefully.” Philippe’s throat currently weighed more than his whole body and he wasn’t even sure if he could swallow.

“I’m sure you could give it a go,” Emre said, a little too nonchalantly.

_Flirting_ , Philippe realised, with surprise, and then horror. _He’s_ flirting _with me._

_As if. Like I could accomplish anything in my life gracefully._

Philippe then had to consider Emre’s expectation from the evening, and whether or not the fact that he’d bought condoms right before they’d met very much indicated his intention to get near, and into, Philippe’s pants tonight.

Philippe then had to consider the possibility that it wouldn’t be an entirely terrible outcome.

_Extra small._

As tantalising as the prospect was, Philippe was pretty powerless on that point- he did not know if he could survive the paralysing awkwardness of a sexual encounter with Emre on that knowledge. Just.

_Why_ extra _small. Why? Why!_

He shoved pizza into his mouth instead of replying. Emre seemed to be satisfied with his reaction, and they ate in silence; Emre, as Philippe predicted, finishing his slice in a matter of seconds and settling back into his carbonara.

This was the worst pizza slice that Philippe had ever eaten- not because it wasn’t delicious; Philippe couldn’t make a solid call on that. But his jaw felt slightly numb, his stomach was very much against the prospect of food in it- so instead the food swirled around and around in his mouth like the contents of a washing machine.

It was hard to have an appetite, though, when his head was suddenly exploring the possibility of kissing Emre. It was, Philippe didn’t want it to; but it was anyway. His eyes were inexplicably drawn to Emre’s lips- transfixed by the pressure as they drew together when he chewed, urges from Philippe’s loins obviously blocking out how totally gross it was.

He just about swallowed. Six-and-three-quarter slices of an impossibly large margarita pizza sat in front of him; most definitely an insurmountable task. He was starting to think about how to strategically get around this when Emre, nearly finished and with literally mere strands of pasta remaining on his plate, said: “do you need help?”

“With what?” Philippe genuinely nearly asked, _with sorting out my life? Because okay._

“Eating,” Emre said. He licked his lips- already a truly terrible thing- and then realised that this wasn’t polite, so reached for his napkin and dabbed neatly at his mouth. He looked so apologetic that Philippe could only sit there, feeling particularly helpless like someone had removed all the bones from his body.

“I can help you out,” he offered, lips pursing now with amusement. “You haven’t really looked like eating since you came in the door.”

“Then why did you let me order?” Philippe moaned.

“I couldn’t be sure,” Emre replied. “If you were nervous, or just ill.”

“So?”

“I shouldn’t have waited for you to say that you weren’t feeling well.”

_Wrong,_ Philippe thought. But he was secretly glad that Emre had decidedly fallen on the opposite side of the net.

“I’m really fine,” he promised. “I’m just not hungry. I, erm.” And he fell just short of an excuse as to why.

This was also wrong, because he was pretty sure that somewhere, deep down, he really was hungry- having not really eaten much today and it all being down to nerves.

Emre, noticing something was up (because of course he did, with his uncanny ability to know and perceive all issues, except for the real root of the problem, namely- that Philippe wasn’t sure he’d be able to have sex with someone who felt the need to buy Extra Small condoms), said, and he said it really kindly and horribly softly: “Hey. Do you know what tastes better than pizza?”

And Philippe said, “what”.

So Emre grinned. “Pizza for _breakfast_.”

Philippe, who had only just regained the ability to speak, found himself quite at a loss for words again, because he was deep, so deep in Emre’s eyes right now and they were _chocolate_ brown and _twinkling_ at him.

“Uh,” he said. “Okay.”

Emre paid.

Philippe didn’t even think to protest until it was too late- he was outside the restaurant, balancing an over-sized pizza box which most definitely required two of his hands, and Emre was walking out behind him. Philippe could see his satchel swinging into his hip.

_Extra small._

If he’d been thinking, something which he was not all that capable of doing at the moment, he would have quite liked to have seen the waiter’s face as they left together.

“I hope it _does_ actually taste better the day after,” Emre nodded at the pizza box, and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. Philippe’s head snapped back upwards, intent on not being too focused on the fabric of Emre’s pants as it stretched across the front of his pelvis.

“Um,” he said.

“It wasn’t that terrible, was it?” Emre smiled at him, saying what Philippe presumed to be a joke- really, he had no idea.

Then.

Emre reached. Philippe saw Emre reach and, preoccupied with a pizza box, had no way to stop it. Had, exactly, no way to stop Emre’s fingers- and they uncurled very carefully, for their size- from brushing off the edge of his elbow, and curling around the hinge.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

Philippe choked, and oh boy: Philippe was not okay. Some combination of the softness of the touch and the look of genuine concern that Emre was giving him: not genuine concern that Philippe was so used to getting from basically everyone he knew, not a: _here we go again_ look of genuine concern, but an _I really want you to be okay_ look of genuine concern.

And so, every nerve-end in his arm twinged in a direct line to the top of Philippe’s spine; just as simultaneously, all the blood in his body rushed south. Except for the blood in his cheeks, which, as it pounded against his skin; let him know clearly that it was indeed still very present.

Emre, unfortunately, noticed. Whether he noticed that Philippe blushed, or that Philippe was suddenly preoccupied with the view just over Emre’s shoulder, or that he had read every signal that Philippe had sent to him throughout the evening despite himself; Emre knew.

For whatever silly, weird reason: Philippe’s complete lack of social skills and his quite apt portrayal as one of the worst people you could be stuck on a blind date with, was not even enough to put Emre off.

“Yeah,” Emre continued, suddenly quiet. “Would you like to go somewhere else? Get a drink?”

It was sincere. It was there. And at the words, Philippe’s heart began to race so fast he thought it might break down.

Silence.

“If you want,” Emre added, sort of hurriedly. Sort of _flustered._

_Extra small._

Philippe stepped back. Stepped back far enough to remove his elbow from Emre’s hold. Emre let go surprisingly easily, even though his hand still lingered in the air.

“I,” Philippe started. “Erm.” He swallowed. The blood in his body was still pulsing in places that distinctly indicated that he would _really_ like to go for a drink, and whatever it entailed, with Emre.

“Sorry,” he croaked, eventually, as they both still stood there. Philippe was looking at the lid of his pizza box. He was sure that Emre was looking at him.

“That’s okay,” Emre said. Still softly, that genuinely-concerned kind of softly.

_No it’s not!_ Philippe wanted to say. _Why did I have to run into you at that pharmacy? Why did I have to find out your condom size, like_ that _? Why do you expect that from our_ first date?

Instead, he didn’t say anything. Slowly, they both turned, and walked away.

* * *

 

Whether or not Philippe _had_ to tell Roberto was contentious but when he did, he really wished that he’d never had the idea. Roberto just _sat_ back on the couch, stretching his arms across the back, and just looking, so, satisfied.

“Oh _boy_ ,” he said, looking like Christmas had come early.

“Shut up,” Philippe responded.

Larissa, forever the referee, sat forward and crossed her hands over one of Roberto’s knees, lifting her chin to interrupt and looking like a very large Siamese cat.

“But you liked him,” she said. “Contraceptives aside, you liked him.”

_Contraceptives aside._ But it was really hard for Philippe to archive that image.

“He’s cool,” Philippe started, _and beautiful_ , “and nice. I just,” he fidgeted to sit back in his seat. “He expected a lot from that date if he was buying them.” Larissa raised one very neat eyebrow with the question. “You know. He hadn’t even met me. I can’t help feeling that he just went on the date for the lay. You get me?”

Roberto nodded, surprisingly thoughtfully. However, it didn’t last. “To be fair,” he smirked, “so did you, bro. You just weren’t as proactive about it.”

Philippe blushed, furiously. “Did not.”

“Did _so_. It was a _date._ You were not there in a purely friendly capacity.”

“Philippe,” Larissa said, ignoring him. “It’s very romantic to think that people go on dates today before hitting any kind of base, but I don’t think that’s quite how it works anymore.” She drowned out Philippe’s protest of “ _But how would_ you _know? You’ve only ever been with_ him!” with a: “What else.”

Philippe swallowed, and blushed even harder.

“Fine,” he said, “if you know. We got that far. What if it’s _embarrassing_? He’s so… tall. And big. What if it’s just…”

“Comical?” Roberto suggested, sniggering.

“Yeah,” Philippe agreed. “You know. When he takes his pants off?”

“Size doesn’t matter,” Larissa said, so smoothly that Roberto looked like he was going to agree with her for a second. Then he frowned, and let and an indignant: “Hey! What do you _mean_?”

“I didn’t mean you, sweetheart,” she purred, patting his knee. Then she returned to Philippe. “I think you judged him too fast. If he wasn’t mean, or boring- and he doesn’t sound like it- then I think you should call him.”

“But _I_ was mean and boring,” Philippe moaned. “So I _don’t_ want to call him.”

_Anyway. He’s beautiful enough that he doesn’t_ need _me._

Philippe pondered that for a second, and his stomach unexpectedly dropped again.

“No,” he said finally. “I’m not going to call him.”

* * *

 

Philippe did think about it, though. The minute the words left his lips, he considered giving Emre another shot. The condom packaging flashed angrily before his eyes, but Philippe found that away from it all- Larissa was right. So what if things went sex first, ask questions later. Did it really matter?

In the end, he didn’t call, but over the next few days he thought about it nearly constantly. He thought about _Emre_ nearly constantly, now that he had tacitly accepted that he would just be that One That Got Away. What would thing have been like, if there wasn’t this obvious problem between them.

Where would they have gone, on their second date? Was Emre a romantic? Something told Philippe that it would be bowling- something to break the ice, because Emre was nice like that. Of course, he also had to imagine that Emre was a pretty darn good kisser.

Something about the daydream had to go right, after all.

Lucas seemed to be hardwired to catch Philippe in the midst of these moments, though- he’d always suddenly round the corner while Philippe was staring blankly at the wall of his cubicle, and he always seemed to _know._ Philippe had kept the details of the blind date on a strict need-to-know basis, but Lucas still seemed to _know._

Philippe hadn’t been prepared for how much it would take over his thoughts. And so, it took a really long time for him to separate his imagination from reality when Emre sat down across from him in the booth at his local coffee shop several days later.

“Hi,” the mirage that looked like Emre said.

“Uh,” Philippe said, completely thrown.

He watched Emre as he lifted his eyes to the empty space next to Philippe, realised how much more of Emre’s neck he could see when he wore a t-shirt- even the sharp edge of his collar.

“So,” Emre said, finally looking back at him. The yellow shop light threw long lines in the shadow of his cheeks. “How’ve you been?”

Philippe cleared his throat, regaining control of his voice a lot faster, this time.

“What are you doing here?” He croaked.

And yet, there was something soft about the edges of Emre’s face.

“It’s the only coffee house in my area that’s open after seven in the evening,” Emre said. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“It’s the only coffee house in _my_ area that’s open after seven in the evening,” Philippe shot back, and Emre’s face dissolved into another one of his hopelessly wide grins.

“That doesn’t smell like coffee,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at Philippe’s cup.

“It’s not,” Philippe admitted, curling the mug closer to him protectively- to Emre’s apparent delight. “It’s hot chocolate.” _With marshmallows._ Except they had long been demolished, and like all information in Philippe’s life these days, this was strictly need-to-know. “No, really,” he said. “What are you _doing_?”

“I met my friend here,” Emre said, calmly. “Over there,” he pointed behind Philippe. Philippe was then startled, when he looked over his shoulder, to find someone sitting at a table in the corner. Someone who waved at them.

“Who’s that?” he yelped.

“Kolo,” Emre said. “Not that it matters.” He picked up a menu balanced on the table in front of him, and began to read.

The man named Kolo broke into a grin, directed at Philippe. Philippe felt his face burst into flames.

“What are you doing?” he asked, exasperated, at Emre frowning quite attractively at the menu.

“Ordering,” Emre said, his lips drawing together.

“What about…” Philippe had already forgotten his name, “your friend?”

“I told him about you,” Emre said. “So he sent me over here.”

“What?” Philippe spun around so fast, something in his neck possibly dislocated. “What did you tell him?”

Emre said nothing, just smiled at the menu. His shoulder lifted in the smallest suggestion at a shrug.

“Do you come here often?” And Emre grinned again at the familiar lines that Philippe, too late, realised he’d used.

Emre shrugged, again- a bit more openly this time.

_Then why do you need to read the menu?_

“You never said the hot chocolate had marshmallows in it,” Emre said abruptly, twisting his lips in disappointment. “Damn. I love marshmallows.”

For whatever, stupid reason: this made Philippe’s heart beat just a little bit faster.

“Why are _you_ here?” Emre asked, again.

Philippe cleared his throat, and fiddled with the edges of his phone that he had turned face-down on the table in front of him. “My housemate is doing his PhD,” it was weird, suddenly it was so much easier to talk to Emre now. It must have been a by-product of all the daydreaming. “With his girlfriend.” Easier? No, _easier_ wasn’t the word. Emre was still horribly pretty, and it made it difficult for Philippe to rearrange his thoughts. “They keep weird hours with their research, and. You know. Sometimes it’s a bit much.”

Emre’s eyes thinned as he listened, taking it in.

“Much?” he asked, eventually.

Philippe realised, then, how hard he was biting down on his lip. And that Emre was watching it.

“You know,” he started. “Personal space. Sometimes they take over the whole apartment. It’s okay, though,” he finished, even though he really wondered if sometimes it wasn’t.

“So you come here?”

“What is this, Twenty Questions?” Philippe had half-snapped it before he’d realised. It had been a long day, and Emre constantly being in his head was partially to blame.

“Right,” Emre said, like this delighted him. “It is.”

“Are you going to get that hot chocolate?”

“It depends. Are you staying?”

Philippe hadn’t been expecting that question, and he hesitated. Hesitated just enough for it to be an affirmation, probably. He dawdled too much over the idea that he would probably regret not taking this chance to spend time with Emre, who seemed to have confidently wormed his way into Philippe’s subconscious.

“Fine,” he said, getting up. Something pleased squirmed in his stomach when Emre’s smile wavered- he actually thought Philippe would leave. “You got the pizza. The hot chocolate is on me.”

He tried to not turn around too often while he was ordering at the counter. Turned around once to see Emre’s friend leaving. Turned around to see that Emre had twisted to sit sideways at the booth, and that he was smiling at Philippe from behind his hand.

“You know,” the barista offered, a little too gently. “You can go and sit down. I’ll bring the drinks over.”

Philippe had been sort of half-smiling back at Emre when he leapt around. “It’s okay,” he said, mortified. “I can wait.”

“It’s _okay_ ,” the barista said, nodding back at Emre and gifting Philippe a knowing smile. “You can sit down.”

Probably purple, Philippe averted Emre’s eyes as he walked back over.

It had only just hit him that this was now, accidentally, their official second date. And, awfully, he still knew _nothing about Emre._

Well. He liked marshmallows in his hot chocolate. He played football with Lucas (and Philippe still couldn’t reconcile that Lucas played football)? Also he looked very soft in that t-shirt. Soft in the same way that the lines of his suit had made him look snappy- not necessarily worse, or anything. Philippe wondered if Emre could come in wearing a clown suit, and possibly still pull it off. But if the monochrome of Emre’s wardrobe so far was anything to go by- a clown suit was pretty unlikely.

“So,” Emre said.

“So,” Philippe agreed, only just realising the complications of having agreed to sit with Emre for as long as it took to drink hot chocolate.

Not very long, as it turned out. At least, it didn’t feel like long until the drink was cold against his tongue, on one of the few sips he’d managed to get in as they’d talked. He kept drinking anyway.

For all his cool exterior, when Emre spoke about things that mattered to him- like his sister, his work; his eyes would drop deep into his mug. His fingers were long, and his thumb drew along the edge of his cup when he listened to Philippe. His eyes were soft and the edge of the collar of his top looked really soft against his skin and his hands looked really, really soft when they both eventually pushed themselves up from the table, having been told for the fourth time that the coffee shop was now closed.

It probably had a lot to do then, as the conversation flowed towards the door (“…yes, but this is what life is like when you’re day job consists of glorified data entry”), with Philippe reaching out, and taking Emre’s hand.

It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t. His hand really was just that soft, and very, very warm. His nails needled Philippe slightly when he curled his fingers against his palm.

Conversation died, slowly.

The silence was as heavy as it was light. Philippe didn’t think he’d ever endured something as close to a comfortable silence as this.

Philippe was reminded of just how close-by he lived as they rounded the corner to his street, their hands swinging slightly between them. He wondered if he was now very much responsible for what he knew was coming.

At the front door to his building, he turned and reached: reached for the collar of Emre’s t-shirt, to see how soft it really was. His eyes closed just in time to see Emre lean down with his lips parted.

It was that easy.

The first kiss was sweet, probably what any first kiss on a front porch should be like. It didn’t last, though. Emre’s hands started up around Philippe’s neck and reached now for his waist; Philippe had been pulling Emre closer by his shirt collar, but now let his arms wind around his neck- to get some leverage, and lift himself to Emre’s chest- and they twisted closer together, kissed deeper.

Philippe suddenly had one hundred hearts, and they beat against every warm point of contact with Emre. Emre’s hands curled around his ribs, squeezed, needling Philippe’s skin even through his jacket. This morning, Philippe had only seen this coming in his wildest dreams. So now when Emre’s teeth grazed at his lip, something at the back of his neck shivered with the amazing surrealness of the last few hours. That they had led to _this._

That was when one of Emre’s hands slid further down Philippe’s back, and lifted him even further into him.

_Extra small._

Philippe stepped straight out of the kiss, letting out a deep, choking sound- the image of the condom box on the pharmacy counter slamming into his head like an anvil. It sucked the air from his lungs so hard, that he had to reach back for the wall of the building, to steady himself.

Emre was out of breath too: Philippe could see his chest rising and falling as he wiped his mouth. His expression wasn’t hard, but his eyes- and Philippe was learning, the only way to know what Emre was really thinking- were impossible to read in the dim light.

“Uh,” Philippe began, the words tumbling, trembling from his lips as he tried desperately to regain composure, and to force the tiny corner of his brain that was chanting _Extra small! Extra small!_ back into its damn box. “Thanks for tonight, I had an. Uh.” Emre’s tongue was still vaguely roaming the inside of his mouth, it was disorientating. “That’s my building. I gotta go.”

He had taken about one step towards the door when he felt Emre’s hand on his arm.

“You can’t do this to me _again_ ,” Emre said, like a hiss through his teeth. He seemed startled at his own insistence and let out a sudden, large amount of air. “When can I see you?”

Philippe still had one hand pressed against the cool wall, and was far too aware of how weak this made him. His endorphins answered, and not his brain.

“Soon?” He asked.

Emre appeared to be genuinely surprised. Maybe he’d expected that he’d have to beg.

“Tomorrow?”

Even in the terrible light, Philippe saw Emre’s smile. His hand dropped from Philippe’s arm to the hem of his jacket. Philippe felt him twist it around his fingers.

“I can cook. If you want to come to mine.”

Philippe was still trying to regain some semblance of a normal breathing pattern. “Okay. I, uh…”

“Can I…” Emre’s breath was a bit short, too. Philippe could feel it in his hair. “Get your number.”

The light from the phone in Philippe’s hands was far too bright, it blinded him. Emre’s hand had now wormed its way under Philippe’s jacket to press his t-shirt to his side. He tried to ignore how he could feel how warm Emre was from here.

It would have been so easy for him to throw himself against Emre again, just then. As it was, he mistyped his number three times.

He paused with his key in the lock.

“Goodnight,” he whispered. He didn’t know why he felt he had to whisper.

Emre lifted his head, and his lips drew back: he beamed at him.

* * *

 

“No _way_.”

Philippe wasn’t even upset at Roberto’s delight. He was _proud_ of Roberto’s delight, as the kettle switched off from the boil behind his shoulder: he leaned back a little more into the counter, still needing a bit of support. _Will Emre kissing me ever feel like more than five seconds ago?_

Roberto blinked- Philippe could see his initial shock fading, to awe, and then glee. Literally: his hands rose from his sides, curled into fists at his chest, and he punched them up into the air.

Philippe couldn’t help but be slightly satisfied by it all.

“ _Dude,”_ Roberto said. “Well _done._ ”

Philippe shrugged, and rubbed at his lip. It still burned it a bit.

“You like him.”

“I don’t know,” Philippe half-lied. This certainly felt a lot like, _like._ But it had to be a stretch after only two dates, especially when one of them had been such a disaster that it hardly counted.

“Yes, you do. You’re all _flustered_ ,” Roberto said, giddy. He turned to Larissa who was lifting a box of cookies from the emergency supply, buried deep into the corner cupboard in the kitchen.

“And he likes you,” he continued, when Larissa chose to open the packet instead of to comment, shrugging. “And he’s going to make you _dinner._ ”

“Sure,” Philippe said. Roberto’s words had suddenly taken a conspiratory edge. “Oh my God. What?”

“ _Dinner_ ,” Roberto said, waggling his eyebrows. “At _his place._ ”

“So?” Philippe suddenly felt worried, and stopped stirring in his teabag.

“ _So,_ ” Roberto cackled. “Phil, _honestly_.”

Philippe realised. “Oh,” he said, lamely. “We’re having sex, not dinner.”

“ _Maybe_ he’s not like that,” Larissa chimed in, over her shoulder as she made her way back over to the paper-drowned kitchen table. “If he likes Philippe, what if- _incredibly, Roberto-_ he just wants to hang out with him?”

“Nuh-uh,” Roberto raised a finger and wiggled it in her direction. “Totally not. Philippe,” and now he grinned at Philippe, enough to induce panic, “is about to find out just _how small_ his problem is.”

Philippe saw Larissa’s shoulders drop when she sighed. She picked up a sheaf of paper from the table, rolled it up, and walked back across the kitchen to smack the hard end of it against the back of Roberto’s head.

“You’re welcome,” she told Philippe, as Roberto howled.

* * *

 

Emre had a _really_ nice apartment.

_Really_ nice. Philippe’s jaw may have dropped as he walked in the door. Monochrome, like Emre’s wardrobe, and modern- everything had a sharp edge. It looked high-end. And it felt clean, and refreshing- so unlike the disaster of his own apartment, most of the time. He couldn’t even lay the blame for that wholly on Roberto and Larissa.

“Wow,” he said, the only way he knew how to compliment.

He was aware of Emre’s hand hovering near his side as he passed him into the kitchen.

“I made a curry,” Emre explained. “But you’re early.” He turned from the hob, and the most delicious smell assaulted Philippe’s nose when Emre lifted a lid from one of the pots. His feet reacted first, dragging him across the room towards the food.

“Wow,” Philippe said, _again_. More of a moan this time. He craned his neck to look at the lovely golden sauce bubbling in the pot. “What kind?”

“You’ll have to try it,” Emre smirked, “and tell me if you like it.” His hand pressed into Philippe’s back suddenly, right at the base where it started to curl.

_An effective trap_ , Philippe realised. Not that he minded. The air was hot, suddenly, and he had the distinct impression that it had nothing to do with what was cooking on the stove.

Well, Roberto had been wrong about one thing. Dinner was definitely in tonight’s plans, somewhere.

Emre carefully placed the lid back on the saucepan. “This needs another while.” His hand turned down the heat, right next to Philippe’s where he leaned against the stove. Hot air, such hot air hit the tops of Philippe’s ears, and under Emre’s hand, his t-shirt stuck to his back. “Would you like a tour of the place?”

Philippe was sure that even if he hadn’t nodded, he would have had a tour. But at least he got to slide his hand into Emre’s again. It felt even nicer here, for some reason. Like Emre was fully committed to letting Philippe share his space.

Emre seemed to take a really long time to get as far as his room. Philippe noticed that he fiddled with his hair a bit, and then a lot as it became more obvious that it was the last stop. Weird, because his hair was so well waxed that Philippe was sure nothing could move it.

“This is-“

“Your room,” Philippe guessed, nodding at the bed. A bed built for two people, he noted, and then shut his brain down before it could lead that thought anywhere else.

“Nice place,” he said, lamely.

“I think so,” Emre replied, modestly.

Philippe hesitated, then lifted his hand from Emre’s. Emre turned, and Philippe was ready for him: wrapping his arms around and around him as they kissed. And, because it was pretty obvious what they were here for, he reached for Emre’s hand at his side and pushed it further down his back. When his fingers curled into Philippe’s skin, Philippe felt a small sound cough up from his throat- and Emre smiled into it.

Philippe didn’t have enough hands, suddenly, for all the places on Emre he wanted to touch. He ran his hands down his sides, explored the way Emre’s shirt bunched against his ribs.

Emre took steps, and Philippe followed- hopelessly disorientated by kissing. Something unexpected hit his knee and he dropped Emre’s mouth to look down.

“Oh,” he said, to the side of the bed. “Erm.” Rather breathlessly, he hadn’t known that his lungs even had this kind of capacity, as they _heaved._

Emre’s lips were red around the edges when he nosed closer again. Philippe clung to the kiss- long, soft- and, certain now, he felt for the sheet and sat down. He lifted his feet to tug his shoes off, giving up on laces and full on pulling at them as Emre’s mouth reached his neck. Tiny squeaks now accompanied Philippe’s breath, all hoarse and rattling, and he didn’t know how to stop them. He wasn’t even making the major decisions anymore, his body bypassed his brain, running his hands down Emre’s back. Lifting his arms when Emre tugged his shirt up over his head.

A hand caught Philippe’s on its way back down and brought it to Emre’s hip. Around the front of Emre’s stomach, over the belt of his trousers. Down.

_Extra small._

Philippe ripped his hand away, ripped himself away from Emre like he’d been burned.

Emre looked stunned as he sat back. “Sorry,” he said, panting. “Sorry, if I-“

Philippe’s elbows, the only things propping him up, collapsed, and he hit the bed with a soft _whump._

“ _No,_ ” he moaned, scrubbing his face. “ _Shit._ ” His hands trembled against his eyes, he was so impossibly wound up.

He heard Emre swallow. The room felt quiet, suddenly, devoid of the wet noises of their kissing. It was quiet enough that he could even hear Emre’s lips move, to try and find words. To try and _apologise._

“It’s not you,” Philippe blurted out. It was Philippe making a big deal out of nothing. That was all.

“Philippe-“

“It’s you,” Philippe corrected, recognising that the blame partially lay with Emre. Even if it wasn’t necessarily his fault. “Wait.”

He took a few, long, slow breaths, and lifted his hands from his eyes. His body pulsed, wondering why on earth it couldn’t just go back in the wonderful direction it had been going before Philippe had stopped it all.

“What?” Emre asked, hoarse.

“It,” Philippe curled up to sit. “I saw you,” he babbled, “before that first time. In that pharmacy.”

Emre, his face decorated with concern, sat back on his hands. “I know,” he said. “I saw you, too.”

“ _No,_ ” Philippe croaked. “I _saw you._ Buying _extra small condoms_.”

The words hung in the air for far too long. It took a million years for Emre’s face to change: from blank, to his eyebrows drawing slowly closer in confusion, to his cheeks rising to narrow his eyes as a massive _grin_ spread his lips. And then, he burst out laughing.

Philippe watched, stunned, as Emre’s laughter forced his head back; letting out giant roars of it. Philippe let out a shocked, nervous half-giggle, more like a hiccup, unsure what to do.

Emre wiped his eyes, opened them up just enough to see Philippe, and then snorted again.

“ _What,”_ Philippe asked.

Emre waved him silent, gasping for air. He pulled himself to the edge of the bed, and stood up. He walked out of the room, leaving Philippe sitting there with his chest feeling rather warm- spreading up and around the collar area. Philippe wondered if this would be as good a time to leave as any other, when he heard Emre burst out laughing somewhere in the hall. But just as he forced himself to start moving, eyeing his t-shirt up on the floor, Emre walked back in, and dropped the condom box on the sheet in front of him.

“These ones?” Emre asked, sliding onto the bed again.

“Uh.” The lettering looked so much less stark than it did when the image of it flashed up on the inside of Philippe’s head. Here on the bed it almost looked friendly, and the boxed looked even smaller. And very harmless.

“They’re not _actually_ for me,” Emre said.

“Right,” Philippe shot back, flatly.

“No, _right,_ ” Emre said.

“Don’t tell me you bought them for a friend,” Philippe yipped back, almost offended. “Come _on_.”

Emre was still grinning. Nothing, it seemed, would stop him from grinning. It made his eyes all soft and glittery, and Philippe had to make a real effort to stay mad at him.

“Thing is,” Emre started slowly. He reached for the box, and started slowly picking off the plastic packaging around it. “Lucas sent me on a date with you, because he thought I needed to start… well he called it _settling down_ ,” he mused, pouting in thought. “Because,” and he hesitated suddenly. Philippe wondered if the box in his hand was shaking. “I don’t know how to put it any better than this,” he admitted. “I generally just…” he caught Philippe’s eye, and pointedly rattled the condom box.

“Oh,” Philippe said.

If he thought it had been easy, was it because with Emre, it _was easy?_

“It’s not,” Emre said quickly, obviously guessing the thought. “It’s not _random_. They’re people I _know_.”

“Right,” Philippe said, his throat dry.

“It’s not romantic,” Emre explained. “It’s not _dating._ It’s… messing around, and it’s fun,” he said the last with too much emphasis. “I appreciated Lucas intervening. It was nice of him. But I didn’t think I was... that I… could. I didn’t think I was ready for anything like that. So I said I’d meet one of my _friends_ after I was meant to meet you.” As he spoke, he flipped the box open with his thumb, and pulled out one of the wrappers. “So it was for him. In a way. I guess.” He manoeuvred the condom free- and it really was very small- and rolled it down his index finger. Then he waved it in Philippe’s direction.

Philippe obviously looked as confused as he felt.

“It’s nice to have your finger covered,” Emre said, clearly gulping back more laughter. “When it goes _places._ ”

Philippe’s mouth was very dry. “You mean-“

“Anal, whatever,” Emre waved his finger, which Philippe’s eyes were now _riveted_ upon, “that’s what I mean.”

“Oh,” Philippe said. Which wasn’t far off what his crotch said, suddenly alive at the thought.

“Oh yes,” Emre said, smirking. He rolled the condom back off his finger, and slid it back into the packet- folding it closed slowly with his hands.

“Oh God,” Philippe said. “I’ll just go and throw myself out the window now, I guess.”

Emre snorted. “Why?” Then, “don’t”, a little hurriedly.

“This is mortifying,” Philippe explained. “I have to.”

Emre relaxed when he picked up the sarcasm. He tossed the wrapper at Philippe, who ducked.

“I should have told you,” Philippe said.

“I wasn’t going to explain _that_ in the middle of a restaurant,” Emre laughed.

“And you didn’t even open the packet, in the end,” Philippe moaned. “Crap. I feel awful.”

“It’s not open,” Emre said, softly. “Because I cancelled on him.”

There was a pause. Philippe felt there was something significant in that statement, and couldn’t quite piece together what it was.

Emre’s eyes were on the motion of him closing the box again, on his thumb carefully running over the fold, smoothing it right down.

“I cancelled,” he murmured, “because I wondered if Lucas had a point.”

Philippe couldn’t find words.

“Yeah,” Emre still looked down, but he flattened his hair back again. “I thought it might be nice, if I just saw someone, the same person, for a while. I didn’t think it would be you. I sort of wanted it to, but I didn’t think it would be. I didn’t think I was brave enough yet to make a commitment. Until I saw you yesterday.”

“Oh,” Philippe said.

“Yeah,” Emre admitted, sheepishly. He caught Philippe’s eye, and bit his lip. “I had sort of hoped that it would just happen, and I wouldn’t have to admit to that… other stuff.”

There was silence. Philippe’s brain took too long to connect the dots.

“So you want to see me,” he said, as he throbbed against the front of his jeans. “Like. You want this to be a thing.”

“I guess,” Emre admitted. “I’d like to try it. We don’t have to just… I mean I’d like to actually go out, with you. Dinner, bowling, whatever you want. Be exclusive, or whatever it’s called-“

Then he had to shut up, because Philippe had reached forward and yanked Emre up to his mouth by the front of his shirt.

* * *

 

“So…” Roberto physically lit up as Philippe walked in the door. “What time do you call _this?_ ”

Roberto was over by the stove, with a spatula in his hand. Philippe sniffed the air.

“Pancake time?” he asked, gloriously pleased that things could have come in such a perfect circle.

Larissa tapped her watch as he sat down at the table. “Three in the morning,” she said. It wasn’t a warning. She looked like Philippe felt- pleased, radiant, delighted. There were so many words for how Philippe felt, because he just felt _so much_.

“I’m starving,” he said, by way of explanation, grinning at her while she grinned at him. His face hurt from it, but that was probably how he was going to roll from now on.

“Hey, so,” Roberto sat down with a plate, and didn’t stop Philippe from lifting a pancake this time. He sounded annoyed, but he didn’t stop him. “I thought Emre was going to feed you.”

Philippe shrugged, and shoved the pancake into his mouth. Another time, he’d tell them about how fun it was to scrub burnt curry from the base of a saucepan in the middle of the night. In your underwear. With someone else. And all those suds.

“Are you going to tell us _anything_?”

Philippe swallowed, and coughed, or laughed- because he laughed all the time, now, it seemed.

“As it turns out, I uh.” He chewed back his giggle. “With the whole condom business. Actually I made a mistake. A… um. A big one.”

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](http://lesbleusthroughandthrough.tumblr.com/), where I am available for prompts and general Liverpool FC-related yelling.


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